Those Who Prey
by Pantera Undone
Summary: A hybrid of unknown type, Ichigo has to leave his hometown behind to pursue his career. Several new teachers start complicating his life. Unknown to him are the sorcerous elements working behind the scenes, manipulating that life. GrimmIchiShiroRen, yaoi
1. Candles

Bleach belongs to Tite Kubo and Shonen Jump, not me, sadly enough. I'm only expressing some of my regard for that series and the characters it birthed.

Contains massive amounts of mature language, smex, and AU nefariousness. The summary sucks, and for that I'm sorry. Thanks for giving it a shot anyways. :D Enjoy...

CHAPTER 01: Candles…

POV: Vermillion

Darkness had fallen over the small town many hours before, most normal citizens tucked away in their beds. No one was at the window to look out at the dark night, lit here and there by slivers of white moonlight that pierced through the clouds above. No one to see the figure crouched on the roof of one of the houses, caramel gold eyes watching over the town as they had every night before for many years. No one knew why the crime rate was so low these days, only that it was a blessing. No one knew why criminals never stuck around Karakura, or why some strangers who came through left just as quickly.

Their blessing was going to end soon. The amber-eyed figured sighed, crossing his arms and leaning his chin on the taut muscle near his wrist. His life was moving on, away from this small, gentle place where he had been raised. Soon he would have a new territory to watch over, a new school and friends that would mask but not erase the ache of losing the old ones.

What would happen to the peace here in his absence? It would linger for a while, then ever so steadily erode away. Those who delighted in pain and hurting the weak would come crawling back, growing bold at the lack of punishment for their wrongdoings. He didn't want that, but neither could he stay here forever. There was no future here for him.

Miserable, the caramel eyes closed as Ichigo buried his face in the denim on his knees.

POV: Blanche

Sprawled on the scraps of fabric that counted as his bed, he stared at the ceiling, able to feel the discontent of another even through the earth and stone, and many miles of air, separating them. His opposite, partly connected and partly removed always. His perfect match, if only the other would accept it. Sighing, he turned his head, pale skin mocking the stained off-white rag of a pillowcase even as his snowy hair covered it. He wanted to be up there, by his half-twin's side, staring into the night together. Wanted what he couldn't have; should he call out, making a connection with their mental communion, his brother would be distant and accusatory, regarding him with the same wariness as every other threat the night presented. He felt none of the longing, loneliness, love that he, the white twin, did. He didn't even know his brother actually existed as anything but a glimmer of insanity in his own mind. Not, Shiro thought coldly, that it would make a difference. His would never love him back even if he knew he was real. And even a demon had too much pride to beg.

POV: Cerulean

The ghosts of the past whispered loudly that night, driving him out of his bed and into the kitchen, where he felt safe. More out of habit than hunger, he chopped, cut, shredded, sliced, and grilled his food into submission, telling himself that it was enough satisfaction to feel the cooked chicken breast shred under his fingers as he peeled it apart, that cutting out the spine of the romaine lettuce and getting fluid on his fingers as he broke off the base was a good enough texture to calm him down. He blocked out the part of his mind craving slicker, wetter textiles to shred, pulsing and still alive, or a far harder crunch of bone as a different kind of spine was broken.

He blocked it and stared blankly ahead at the masses of food he would finish at some point in the early A.M. and wrap up to take to the shelter downtown. There was no way he could touch it.

POV: Crimson

Cinnamon red eyes scanned leisurely over lines of text, a smile growing on curved, sculpted lips as he read. Finally he snapped the book shut with a low, rough chuckle. "Perfect," he muttered, walking to his bookshelf and replacing the leather-bound tome among the hundreds of others like it. "It should only take a few more days."

"What are you scheming now?" A dark, hissing voice spat from the corner.

The smirk curved into a full grin. "Ohh, wouldn't you like to know, pet? Sorry, but I don't trust you with my plans after last time."

Eerie, black and gold eyes stared back in hatred even as white lips curved in a fake smile. "What ever do you mean? I thought your lab looked good on fire. You can't blame me for not knowing you'd think different."

A barking yowl of anger filled the room as the crimson sorcerer's familiar stirred on his perch. The white baboon growled in rage at the white demon lock in it's cage, snake tail whipping back and forth with an ongoing hiss of displeasure.

"Easy, Zabimaru," the sorcerer crooned, cinnamon eyes amused. "Our pet was punished for that. There's no reason to hold a grudge." Crimson hair flowed in a shimmering waterfall from it's tie high up on his head; he idly flicked it over his shoulder, well aware of how beautiful the strands were as they slid slowly over his royal blue and copper velvet robe. "And he'll be obedient enough to make up for that, too, in due time…"

The crimson sorcerer chuckled wickedly to himself and turned back to his worktable. An arcane glyph was carved deeply into the marble, candles of every color laid out at key points. The red, green and black ones burned strongly, the rest still unlit. Chuckling still, the red sorcerer held up a small white charm, twisted together from soft snow-colored hair and a strip of dirty fabric that looked a lot like the demon's bedding.

Alarm widened the black and gold eyes. "What are you doing now, Abarai-?"

"You'll see." The small charm was gently tied to the white candle, a drop of crystalline magic slipping off the strong tan fingers and binding it in place. Abarai smiled, and it was a terrifying thing to see. Arcane tattoos writhing on his skin, spice-colored eyes glowing suddenly red, he murmured, "It's all coming together…" And he blew, ever so gently, at the candle, igniting it in a swirl of pure white flame.

And then the demon started to scream.

POV: Vermillion

Ichigo frowned slightly, a sense of discomfort twisting inside him in the middle of his class. What the hell? It felt odd, like a twisting, burning pain that came from very far away, almost an afterthought. Shrugging it off as his imagination, he finished answering the last question on the sheet of paper and picked up his bags, dropping the math quiz on the stern-looking teacher's desk on his way out. The tiny woman's cold purple eyes looked him over as he walked out, which he also ignored. Ms. Kuchiki had had a weird attitude since he showed up in class that day, albeit a few minutes late.

He checked his schedule; looked like he had his electives class next, the random thing he'd picked to get extra points. He'd already done most of his requirements at Karakura Community College; the only thing they hadn't let him transfer over credit-wise from KCC had been his math, because apparently the teachers didn't get along and Kuchiki wouldn't credit Professor Abarai's work.

_Whatever. _His next class, Creative Culinary Arts, was in Building 6. Looking at his campus map and scowling- Las Noches Academy was laid out like an impressionist artwork of a beehive- Ichigo tried to figure out where the hell he was supposed to go and only grew more confused.

Some time later he slammed his fist into a white wall, panting in frustration. _Where the fuck am I? _Panting from running around the campus for the last twenty minutes, he closed his eyes, briefly considering just giving up and heading for some lunch. He was hungry and would far prefer to chow down than start messing around with food he couldn't eat.

_But I can't,_ he reminded himself. _My GPA rides on all my classes, not just the important ones. I'll never be a doctor if I don't manage this._

Sighing, he straightened and wiped the sweat off his face, opening honey-colored eyes wearily to start his search anew. Before he could, a flash of color drew his attention. Blue… bright, pale blue, like the sky in summer, flickering between gaps of the monstrous grey-white hedge bordering the walkway. Curious, Ichigo leaned over it and looked down at … a man? A man with blue hair, tall and fit, in intriguingly tight blue jeans, t-shirt and a leather jacket hanging unzipped despite the bitingly cold September wind. He was fastening a rattail at the back of his neck, the rest of his hair short and spiky all over his head. What an odd style, yet somehow quite attractive. As Ichigo watched he bent down- _Mmm, nice view_- and picked up something he'd had resting on the tops of his shoes.

_What the hell? . . . Aprons? _Ichigo raised his eyebrows at the ten or fifteen white butcher's aprons in the man's arms. No teacher would have bright blue hair in that kind of style, so what was a student doing running around with aprons? Doing errands for extra credit? In which case, the place he was walking off to in that brash, confident swagger was probably some kind of cooking class…

Grinning widely, Ichigo backed up and looked around for a spot to jump down to where the blue haired man was. It was too high here- he could make the jump down just fine but it would be extremely obvious that he was abnormal for doing so. Determined, he turned and ran to the edge of the courtyard he'd managed to corner himself in. It was on the third story; below was the first story path that Blue-Hair-With-Nice-Ass was disappearing from, same as the other side, but this one also had a long white pathway connecting two buildings at the second story level, and no one was on it. _Perfect._

Not bothering to contemplate farther then that, Ichigo back up five steps, sprinted to and vaulted over the safety railing. Wind blew cold up the inside of his shirt as he angled down and landed in a crouch on the walkway. Without bothering to look around, he jumped up on the railing of the walkway and ran down it parallel to the walk below. Right at the point they branched off from each other, Ichigo deliberately stepped sideways, catching himself on his hands at the edge of the walk, then vaulting backwards to skid out on the ground below. Grinning and panting from the adrenaline pulsing through his body, loving the ache of impact that still sang in the muscles of his calves, he pushed himself to his feet and ran after the enticing glimpse of blue.

POV: Cerulean

Kid was fuckin' crazy. Grimmjow shook his head, watching out the corner of his eye as the bright-haired young man jumped down first from the Avian Balcony, then the Midway Path to ground behind him. Normal human being would have splinters for ankles after that move, so the knucklehead was obviously something _else_. That was fine, except how the hell had he survived this long being so flagrant about it? Idiot.

_Idiot who is following me._ The fuck? Was he lost or something? Or just wanting to play tag? Grimmjow didn't have to even look behind him to track the furtive movements as the tall, lanky carrot-top stalked him across campus. _Ah, whatever. I don't care. It's kinda… cute, I guess. He thinks he's so stealthy._ At that though he bit back a snort; Grimmjow had hunted rabid elephants that made less noise. The wind was blowing the wrong way to catch his scent, but that was still no hindrance. Amused, he continued on his way to his classroom, for the most part ignoring the brat chasing him.

At Building 6 he paused, blinking at what sounded like a muffled "yes!" behind him. Seriously, what the fuck? Peering over his shoulder, he had to bite back a grin at the hiding spot the kid had chosen. Heh, at least he knows where to run for camouflage. Keeping his face blank and not acknowledging the one clump of autumn colored hedge that had much more orange in it than the rest, he turned back and continued on his way.

At some point the kid dropped back, doubtless to try and look normal as he approached later, or he had finally found what he was looking for. Grimmjow threw the aprons onto his desk and walked deeper into his paradise, a perfect combination of classroom and kitchen. He wiped down the counters despite their spotless shine, moved the tubs of raw ingredients from the fridges to the table and began setting them out, all the while humming to himself. It was an odd habit he'd picked up some time back, when he had stopped taking his second shape; it his human substitute for purring, he supposed. Caught up in his happy calm, he continued to hum, the song of choice playing accompaniment in his head.

"Everything Burns? Pretty dark choice if you ask me."

POV: Vermillion

At his comment, shockingly bright blue eyes snapped up to stare into his with an intensity bordering on homicidal. Ichigo had to stop himself from taking a step back. No longer humming, the tall student straightened and growled very quietly, "Did I?"

Blinking, he had to ask, "Did you what?"

Sharp and precise through very sharp teeth, the blue-eyed man said, "Did I ask you?"

The cold, nearly vicious response was not expected and made him feel unspeakably awkward. He'd only wanted to break the ice, standing at the door listening to the man's low, rumbly voice humming the bars to a song he knew quite well. Grimacing, Ichigo shrugged. "I guess not. Sorry."

Suddenly calm again, the man shrugged a shoulder and went back to what he was doing, no longer acknowledging there was anyone else there.

God, why was someone this grumpy so attractive? Tall and extremely fit with sharp, lean facial bones and unique teal tattoos under his eyes, the guy could've been any girl's dream if it weren't for his sour personality. Of course, people thought that about Ichigo, too. Undeterred, Ichigo took a few steps in, seeing the sign near the door with the right class number on it. "So you have this class too? Are you running errands for the teacher?"

The phosphor blue eyes flicked up again, cold and calculating, measuring his worth and his words before a slick, easy grin pulled up one side of the man's mouth, turning him from ruggedly handsome to heart-stopping in an instant. "Somethin' like that."

"Hmm." This was getting nowhere. He decided to stop faking nice and return to his usual, blunt self. "You got a name or are you just known by a series of grunting noises?"

Chuckling, a low gravelly sound that made Ichigo's skin tingle, the man stood up straight and looked him in the eye. "Not as spineless as you look, huh? Call me Grimm for now." He cocked his head and gestured. "Wash your hands. If you got time to loiter, you got time to help."

Annoyed, Ichigo almost disagreed, but then reasoned that he could maybe pry some more conversation out of this reclusive, blue-haired man by working alongside him. He nodded and went to the large industrial sink, running hot water and scrubbing his hands well, around the fingers, up the wrists and under the nails. As the son of a doctor, he'd never been allowed to be half-assed about washing his hands. Circling the long white counters to stand next to Grimm, he asked, "So what are we doing? I'm Ichigo, by the way."

"Take these and put one by each workstation," the man ordered, handing him a bin of what looked like dark green lettuce and not acknowledging the name in the least.

"Um, okay. What are you making, salad or something? How is that artistic?"

At his mutter the blue-haired man laughed. "What do you care? Just put 'em out."

"Well, I'm in this class, so I do care," Ichigo snapped. "I figured the teacher'd be some Cordon Bleu-graduate whacko with a Hitler mustache and a gut the size of a station wagon."

A choking sound made him glance back, but Grimm was only smirking as he laid out plastic-wrapped raw chicken breasts and some kind of flat, brown tortilla-looking things. "Why'd you think that?"

He'd really just randomly thrown it out there, but the smirk was a challenge. Grinning, Ichigo justified it with, "Well, with a name like Mr. Jaegerjaquez, he's gotta be some kind of European, and everyone knows they're crazy. Not to mention this class is called Culinary Arts, and anyone who thinks food is a type of art has to be a little weird. And chefs are fat. They love food too much not to be. So, crazy, fat, European chef. Probably yells German at students who don't slice their chicken just right."

Snickering more than Ichigo thought the joke warranted, Grimm just shook his head.

"What, am I wrong? Okay smartass, what _is _he like? You've met him."

"Hmm? Well…" Grinning widely, showing off bright white teeth sharp enough to cut flesh, he said, "He's much worse than you think. Not fat or soft, but _really_ demanding."

Ichigo grimaced. "Really?"

"Oh yeah. Ex-military, barks orders like you wouldn't believe. Perfectionist. I don't think he's German, the name comes from his grandparents, I think. Vicious bastard, though. All his students hate him."

Ichigo scowled. "Awesome." Then he shrugged. "Ah well. I need the credits, so I'll have to deal with it. Why is he like that, do you know?"

"He just wants people to actually take it seriously. Almost everyone takes this class just because it's an elective course, and it's food so they think they can slack off and still get good grades. It pisses him off. If it's worth doing, it's worth giving a damn about. Not that anyone ever does."

Ichigo blinked, surprised at the low, irritated mutter. Did Grimm empathize with the teacher over the students' apathy? It made sense, though. Trying to teach your passion and having everyone slack off at it would be pretty upsetting. Ichigo looked at the food laid out, nodded to himself, and kept working.

POV: Cerulean

_Damn, I let it get too personal._ Grimmjow shook his head, refocusing on the utensils he was putting at each spot. Why was he bothering to explain? Even if his cocky attitude and blunt manner was amusing, this kid Ichigo wouldn't be any different from the rest of the punks in his class. Just another lazy fucker to terrorize for a term. Grimmjow twirled a knife expertly on his hand, smirking a little at the thought.

To his surprise the knife was plucked off his finger and added to the placed utensils, Ichigo then taking the basin of silverware and continuing to put them out in Grimmjow's place, copying the layout he'd started. The boy's handsome but sulky face was surprisingly thoughtful, honey amber eyes serious as he worked.

"What are you doing?"

"Helping." Ichigo found a long, evil-looking military knife at the bottom of the plastic bin and scowled at it. "The fuck is this for? Killing the meat before we cook it?"

He couldn't help but laugh- the kid wasn't far off. "That's mine. Guess I left it in there by mistake last time."

Ichigo gave him a funny look but handed him the giant survival bowie knife anyways.

They finished laying everything not long later. It was time for the class to start, and he could hear footsteps and chatter coming down the hall. _Fresh meat._ Oddly though he didn't think of Ichigo in that category, though it _would_ be fun to fuck with him. Tossing an apron at the boy, he said with a grin, "Alright Kurosaki, pick a spot and sit down."

Ichigo looked at him in confusion, having not told him his last name. "Uh-"

Grimmjow walked up to his desk and leaned back against it, arms crossed as the other students began filing in. They looked around, unconcerned and assuming he was not the teacher, jostling for seats and still chatting.

Still leaning back nonchalantly against his desk, Grimmjow smirked, then raised his voice to a shocking level as he yelled, _"Wash _your_ goddamn _hands and get an apron on_ before _you sit, you_ maggots!"_

Eight pairs of wide, startled eyes swung around to him, before backpacks were dropped and the scrambled to obey. No one quibbled when he used That Voice. It was an aural ass-kicking on it's own. Smirking, he caught a narrow-eyed glare from amber eyes that had figured him out. He grinned shamelessly back before turning to write the name of the day's dish on the white board. He heard a grumpy mutter behind him from the owner of that glare, and smiled wider.

Oh, lest he forget… "By the way, maggots, for your sake I hope you came with determination to do well, because no one leaves this classroom until they've eaten what they made. Today we have chicken and spinach flatbread sandwich melts, which taste disgusting if not done right." He grinned, loving the dismay on his students' faces. "Just sayin'…"


	2. Lies

Chapter 2: Lies

POV: Blanche

It had been hurting for days now, enough to dim the searing pressure of it to a dull, throbbing burn. In that burn were details he was only just now starting to be able to pinpoint; heartbeats, some loud, some faint, speed and rhythm varying as they pulsed in his mind and flesh; he couldn't tell how many. There was a whistling of wind that he was starting to think was breath, constantly going in and out, swirling in his ears.

It hurt, oh God it hurt, but the demon slowly rolled to his stomach and pushed himself up to his knees, muscles shaking from how hard it was to move without screaming.

Spice-colored eyes looked at him from beyond the bars. "Oh? You're awake. How interesting that it only took a few days for the pain to wear off. You truly a remarkable breed, _Hichiin_."

"Don't…" Voice failing him, he turned and spat, swallowing to ease the raggedness of his throat. "Don't you call me that!" Pride and rage was the only thing that got him to his feet, but he made it, standing tall and naked, uncaring of the bloody welts on his skin from his own clawing or the dirt that marred porcelain skin. It didn't matter unless he let it matter, and if he let it matter, the crimson asshole would win. Turning his back on the sorcerer who held his life pretty much in his hands, Shiro rested his head against the wall and breathed in and out, in and out. _It's enough to be alive_, he murmured to himself with each breath. _Alive means I haven't lost yet._

_Ichigo… _He reached for the familiar link instinctively, needing the comfort of not being alone, but in the haze of sensation in his head he couldn't find it. Panic welled up inside him, a fear that somehow the sorcerer had realized how much he could still touch his twin and had thus magically severed the link.

All his terror and pain rose through him as a soundless, psychic scream, echoing through his head even as his body, drained of energy, collapsed to the floor.

POV: Vermillion

Ichigo stared at the teacher with narrowed eyes, halfway between irritated and pissed off and growing closer to the latter. The blue-haired bastard, besides being a sneaky liar, was an absolute sadist. He leered with an absolutely homicidal grin at the slower students, twirling that giant knife in such a suggestive manner that the poor kids nearly collapsed. He even tortured the food, shredding and cutting with a zealous delight that was almost as arousing as it was disturbing. Either way, the calm, cold man from before class seemed completely absent. Or was he? In between psychotic knife stroking and painfully loud orders barked at his students, there seemed to be a peace in the depths of burning phosphor blue eyes.

Ichigo tilted his head unconsciously, studying the sharp, angular profile. Without warning Grimm's head swung around and blue eyes met amber. "Quit lagging, Kurosaki! If ya got time to stare, ya got time to slice that chicken properly!"

Ichigo curled his lip, glaring straight into the laughing blue eyes as he began slicing the chicken breast yet again. This was the third such reprimand he'd gotten, doubtless as revenge for his earlier comment about a German nut job teacher. At this rate the meat would be powder before it got put in the food.

_...ichigo..._

A whispering, whining noise filled his head, a ringing that was not quite in his ears. Who was calling him? His demon? Tch, that thing was nothing but trouble. Blinking, he shook his head, trying to clear the fuzziness from the corners of his eyes. The strange sensation faded a bit and he relaxed, picking up the knife again and preparing to cut diagonally across the meat again.

"_ICHIGO!"_

An agonized scream blasted through his mind, from the depths of his mind to the base of his skull and the back of his eyes, sending bolts of agony tearing through flesh with the speed and power of raw lightning. All he was aware of was blackness all around him, the overwhelming fear and panic of his inner demon before the creature faded from his awareness, and, faintly, a sound of several people screaming from far away as it all turned to black.

POV: Cerulean

It was only funny until someone got hurt. Then it was hilarious. As the amber eyes rolled back mid-collapse and the rest of the students fell back screeching, Grimmjow fought down laughter. What the fuck was so bad? So he cut himself on the knife as he passed out. Big deal. Rolling his eyes, Grimmjow yelled in That Voice, "Shut your goddamn mouths, you little twats! He's fine!"

Instead of calming the students, it drove them into a fit of camera phones and text messages.

Disgusted, Grimmjow grabbed one such phone from the hands of the nearest student and broke it in half negligently. "Get the fuck outta my class. You all get an F." At their blank, uncomprehending stares, he yelled, "NOW!"

As the patter of neon-colored brand name shoes faded down the hallway, Grimmjow looked down at the one remaining student. He was sprawled on the floor, shaggy orange hair framing that lean, strong-boned face in an orange halo while blood slowly pooled around the cut on his long-fingered hand. In unconsciousness the boy looked vulnerable and edible, long limbs thrown everywhere, almost asking to be devoured; his face was wistful and oddly pretty when he was awake to scowl with it.

_Hmmmmm_. Smirking ever so slightly, Grimmjow stepped closer and crouched, looming over the slightly smaller male. The red-brown eyelashes flickered, showing that he would soon wake up. Grimmjow picked up the injured hand and examined it. A long gash cut the boy's hand from the base of his palm to the tip of his longest finger. It was mostly shallow, bleeding slow, but in one place alarmingly deep from the weight of Ichigo's body slamming it into the knife. The tendons could very well have been damaged or severed, which would cripple the dexterity of this hand. And Kurosaki's file said he was pre-med with a focus on surgery...

As the amber eyes blinked open slowly, dazed and blank, Grimmjow put his mouth to the wound and slid his tongue along the length of the laceration.

POV: Vermillion

He came awake to hot wet slickness sliding over his hand, prompting pain, and a blurry image of a blue-haired man looming over him. Lust warred with alarm as his first reaction; he wasn't sure who won, only that he gasped and tried to pull away even as his pants grew slightly tighter.

Those cold, cold blue eyes caught his and held, boring holes in him with the predatory intent there even as that long, rough tongue made another stroke along the gash on his hand. It burned, and tingled with a warmth that was spreading too rapidly to be just his hormones. Alarmed, he pushed himself up and rasped, "What are you doing?" as he tried to pull away.

Tightening his grip on Ichigo's hand, the teacher licked his lips, turning them red with the smears of blood. "Cleaning the wound. You'll lose the use of this hand for most things if I don't. Feel that heat? Healing enzymes in my saliva. You're lucky this happened here and not in wood shop or the garage; you'd probably just have been left there until you woke up to try and treat it yourself."

Ignoring the heat that was, indeed, throbbing all the way down his arm, Ichigo snarled, "You're lying. Saliva doesn't do that, unless you're some kind of dog, and last I checked you didn't have a tail."

The blue eyes narrowed. "Oh, I'm lying, am I?" Pulling his bottom lip into him mouth, the man bit down, lacerating the skin with his teeth and sending a shock through Ichigo's body. A jolt of both horror and, yes, that was definitely arousal. Why? Why did the sight of that cold, beautiful face with blood pouring down his lips increase the heat inside him so much? Horrified at himself, Ichigo watched with his jaw clenched as that long tongue stroked slowly, deliberately over Grimm's lower lip, leaving decidedly smaller, more faded cuts. Another lap of the tongue, dark red with blood, and the wounds were no longer even open. Third and last swipe removed all signs there ever was a wound on that lip.

Blue eyes roiling with the same dangerous charge that made Ichigo's blood so warm, Grimm challenged, "Still think I'm lying?"

The hand not held captive made it's own way to the formerly damaged lip, needing to touch to believe. Ichigo had never thought his eyes good enough for evidence, not when his fingers found lies his eyes never could. This time his fingers found only smooth, blood-sticky skin, and a tongue that playfully flicked at the pads for daring not to ask permission.

Swallowing, feeling trapped but uncertain if he was upset about it or not, Ichigo asked quietly, "How?"

Tilting his head, Grimm snorted. "It's how I am. How do you jump from a balcony and not get hurt? Can you explain it?"

_Shit._ Feeling ill, Ichigo pulled his hand away and scowled. "I did nothing of the kind. I'm just a human being, no one could do that."

Grimm sneered at him coldly. "Liar." Without another word the man stood up and walked away, taking with him the feeling of heat under Ichigo's skin. "If you can stand, start cleaning up this mess. You owe me for ruining my class with your little pass-out scene. Cleaning stuff is under the big sink in back; I _will_ fail you if this place is not shining by tomorrow." With that the door slammed shut behind him, leaving a very confused boy on the floor to blink after him.

Ichigo stood up, wiping his bloody hands on his jeans and sighing. Now that he was alone, he no longer felt like heat was burrowing through his flesh to eat him alive. There was a lingering tingly feeling around the faded scar on his hand, and a half-gone erection in his jeans, but he was in control. Sane. Safe.

Cleaning was a simple, mindless task that left him too much room to think. He pushed aside the awkward encounter with his teacher, only to be cornered by the more uncomfortable memory of his demon screaming in the depths of his mind. Many times the creature had been irritating and deceptive, bothering him, calling to him when he couldn't afford to be distracted. Never had there been so much terror and pain in the lilting resonance of that inner voice. Never had a desperate scream filled his mind like that. And now there was only silence and his own thoughts, no trace of the sarcastic, subtle watcher that had been with him so long.

Pausing in the act of wiping the sink out, Ichigo stared at his blurry reflection in the steel, seeing white instead of tan skin, inverted yellow and black instead of amber eyes. It was all he had to go on, that twisted reflection of himself that the demon offered as his identity. There had been no warning when, as a young teen, the quiet sense of not being alone had become a voice with will and intent. The demon had not even had a name, asking Ichigo for one instead. He should have rejected the creature and driven it from his mind, but it was persuasive and clingy, claiming only to want some sort of brotherly affection from Ichigo. As a lonely, misunderstood teen with strange abilities, Ichigo had felt sympathy for the desperate being.

'_You want me to give you a name?' he'd asked in bewilderment. 'Why me? Pick one yourself.'_

_The sibilant voice whined, 'I don't want to. It won't mean anything. Please, Ichigo?'_

'_Okay… what are you like? Tell me something about you?'_

_Silence. Then the voice tentatively said, 'White. I am white, I think. That is all I can see of myself.'_

_Ichigo blinked, then sighed. 'Okay.' He knew by then not to expect more details from the odd voice in his head. It had not been so long since his mom died that he didn't remember the Japanese she used to teach him, and the word for white came back to him after a moment or two of thought. 'Shiro. I'll call you Shiro.'_

_A wave of happiness hit him sideways, shocking him with how much a name he'd barely put any thought into meant to the lonely entity in his mind._

Ichigo pressed his lips together, trying to push away the surge of guilt that memory brought. Yes, Shiro was devious, manipulative, annoying, and intrusive, but it was also sad, awkward, and surprisingly trusting. Sometimes Ichigo wondered what the demon did when it wasn't speaking to him, but never asked. He wasn't sure he had really wanted to know, honestly.

But now, trying to find Shiro and getting only darkness and a sense of being trapped, he wished he'd asked more questions. An aching worry was building up at the base of his skull, knawing at him with sharp teeth that would not leave well enough alone.

POV: Crimson

The demon's collapse was interesting, but of little merit otherwise. Having left a freshly killed rabbit for Zabimaru to feast on, Renji left his study, walking up and then down several sets of stairs until he emerged back into his neat, completely normal-looking upstairs home. He removed his sorcerer's robe, a twist of magic cleaning it of dust and baboon hairs that it had collected before going back into his closet.

A long, hot shower cleaned the scent of spell craft and herbs from his skin, leaving only strong, fresh soap behind. He cleaned his long red hair carefully, working specially made conditioner through the strands for long minutes before rinsing out the nourishing blend of oils and extracts. Their unique scent stayed with him as he left the shower and dried off. Then he began the slow process of transforming into something he was not; normal.

Not by magic; such spells were unreliable out in a public domain. No, he used irritatingly mundane methods to become another version of himself. First, before the makeup, he applied contacts that turned his cinnamon-red eyes into a bland grey-brown. Then, when the watering had stopped, he applied a thick, smothering foundation in several layers to cover the distinctive tattoos only magic handlers had. It felt disgusting on his skin, but nothing else would hide his marks. Next some more complex makeup in small amounts, applied with tiny brushes, to give older shadows to his face, the illusion of age. Shadows under the eyes and under the cheekbones to make his face seem more gaunt, small clumps of makeup that bunched in the semblance of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. More shadows in the inner corner to make his eyes seem more sunken. Next a comb lightly dipped in a silver solution to give him grey threads at his temples. He carefully swept back the wet strands and bound them into a severe braid that reached nearly to his hips. A blow dryer set on cool fixed both his hair and the false grey into place for the day.

Face done, he carefully applied a lotion that had a mix of more foundation and a very fine sand in it to his hands, drying them under the blower to set the mixture. The grit creased in his skin, making his hands look as old as his false face.

Then, the hand make-up reliably smudge proof, he dressed himself. A grey button-down shirt, ugly brown and orange argyle vest, and a frumpy 80s-style jacket and slacks set that hung on his frame, making him seem much skinnier than he was. The jacket was also carefully padded on the back to give the illusion he was slumped over. Truly miserable-looking brown and purple argyle socks and old brown loafers completed his old, butt-ugly schoolteacher ensemble. Getting his wallet and keys, he studied himself carefully in the mirror before nodding and walking out of the house. His purely-for-show vehicle, an ancient Ford Mustang in bad repair, puttered to life under his insistant coaxing- really, even as old as it was, cars hated magic.

He consulted his mental schedule as he pulled out of the driveway and began creaking his way down the road. He had business to finish at Karakura Community College, mostly just papers to sign and fake, for-show possessions to collect. His application as a substitute teacher at Las Noches was being processed, with some resistance from his angry former pupil, who had some vague idea of his plans. Not that she could do much about it except random acts of passive-aggressiveness, he thought with a smirk. The lock of hair tied to the burning black candle in his study made sure of that.


End file.
